Jörmungandr
by Neko-chan -Silvered Tongue
Summary: Her hands were ice, frozen solid against Harry's palms, and her face continued to pale until her skin became as white as bone. And the boy, the silver-tongued boy, smiled like a snake through it all.
1. Ear

_Title:_ Jörmungandr

_Author:_ Neko-chan

_Fandom:_ Harry Potter

_Rating:_ M

_Pairing:_ Tom Riddle Jr./Harry Potter

_Disclaimer:_ I own neither Harry Potter nor Kuroshitsuji, my two favorite fandom franchises. One day, perhaps, when my plan for world domination has been completed, I will then be able to change that statement because—at that point in time—I will own _everything_. ;) Until then, however… I own nothing. OTL

_Summary:_ Her hands were ice, frozen solid against Harry's palms, and her face continued to pale until her skin became as white as bone. And the boy, the silver-tongued boy, smiled like a snake through it all.

_Author's Note:_ No, I'm not abandoning _Paradise Lost_. Yes, this will also be a multi-chaptered story (twenty-nine, actually, based upon the most commonly used runes in the Old English runic alphabet). Yes, I'll be alternating the chapters between the two (for my own sanity's sake). Yes, this is again dedicated to brightsun89 (if only because the little sister will be able to bully me into finishing this *lazy older sister*). And yes, I enjoy my classics a little too much. ;P On a side note, the Anglo-Saxon rune poem and its ME translation are both taken from the site _ragweedforge[dot]com_ since I don't want to take the time to translate the original myself—though, fyi, I might do minor adjusts with the translations depending on if I think that a better word fits (or if the word that they use is _wrong_ *bratty Medieval Brit Lit major*) or if the turn of phrase could be better implemented with something else. (Nothing wrong with being both lazy _and_ nitpicky.)

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE  
Ear**

**

* * *

**

**Ear** byþ egle eorla gehwylcun,  
ðonn fæstlice flæsc onginneþ,  
hraw colian, hrusan ceosan  
blac to gebeddan; bleda gedreosaþ,  
wynna gewitaþ, wera geswicaþ.

_**Grave**__ is horrible to each brave man,  
when the flesh quickly begins to cool  
and is laid in the bosom of the dark earth.  
Prosperity declines, happiness passes away  
and covenants are broken. _

_

* * *

_

From the first time that Ginny Weasley had stepped into the Great Hall for her Sorting Ceremony and glanced over to the Gryffindor Table with a shy smile tugging at the corners of her lips and doe-brown eyes quickly turning downcast so that she might look at the toes of her shoes that peeked out from the hem of her robes, Harry Potter had known that, no matter how long it ended up taking, Ginny was going to be the one that he spent the rest of his life with. He knew this with a certainty that only the extremely young were capable of experiencing, the type of knowledge that came when one looked up and saw how the firelight gleamed upon silky hair and how a smile made a face glow with inner light; these were things that the young noticed, that the young insisted were the first signs of True Love, and these were the signs that made Harry's heart beat faster as he watched Ginny step forward so that the Sorting Hat could be placed upon her head. He knew. He _knew_ that she was the one for him.

Of course, the twelve year-old boy didn't tell his best mate any of this.

After watching the interactions between Ginny and her older brothers during his time at the Burrow, Harry had come to see for himself that the girl was the apple of her family's eye; not only was she the youngest child, but she also happened to be the only girl. Even Percy tended to dote on her, though the snooty redhead tended to do so in a backhanded manner. Ginny was her brothers' sweetheart, and if they found out that Harry knew himself to be in love with her... It wouldn't end well for the Potter heir. And yet...

And yet.

It was this memory that resided in the foreground of Harry's mind as the boy ran through the passageways that threaded through the Chamber of Secrets, leaving an _Obliviated _Lockhart and a worried Ron behind a solid wall of rock, caused by the Defense teacher's spectacular demonstration of being a horrible human being behind the lying mask of his brightly smiling face. But—that was neither here nor there, because Harry's attention was riveted upon the task that he was the only one capable of doing: saving Ginny before the basilisk harmed her. That thought alone spurred Harry's steps until his shoes _slap-slap-slapped_ roughly through puddles and against stone both, echoing eerily in the underground chambers as Harry ran and ran _and ran_, hoping against hope that he would make it in time to save Ginny. He was the only one who had managed to remain on this side of the cave-in, and his best mate's little sister _needed_ him. The girl with the kindest, sweetest, shyest smile _needed_ him; and Harry just _had_ to make it in time to save her.

The boy's breath was harsh, heavily panting from his exertion, and just barely managed to hiss out an »Open.« as the Gryffindor came to a stop before the huge metal door that barred his way to the main chamber. The door opened impossibly so, almost seeming to purposefully lag.. as if knowing that the boy that now commanded it wasn't a _true_ heir of Slytherin's despite the fact that he was able to Speak. Still, however, it _did_ open for him, and all Harry needed was just a small crack before he was wiggling his way through, darting deeper into the Chamber of Secrets. _Too long; she's been by herself too long. I have to go faster. Ginny needs me!_ Harry thought, each word timed to perfectly match the pounding of his feet. By the time that Harry finally made it to the main chamber, the one where Salazar Slytherin overlooked all he saw with a cold, assessing gaze, the second year discovered something that he hadn't ever expected to see.

"…Tom?"


	2. Thurisaz

**CHAPTER TWO**  
**Thurisaz**

* * *

**Ðorn** byþ ðearle scearp; ðegna gehwylcum  
anfeng ys yfyl, ungemetum reþe  
manna gehwelcum, ðe him mid resteð.

**_Thorn_**_ bites dearly sharp;  
is an evil thing for any brave man to touch,  
uncommonly severe on all who rests among them. _

_

* * *

_

"…Tom?"

The only time that Harry had ever _seen_ Tom Riddle was when the other boy had brought him into the diary to watch the accusations made against Hagrid. And yet… and yet here the other boy stood, as solid as Harry himself, watching the green-eyed Gryffindor with a gaze that made Harry feel unsettled. Tom's gaze was almost… _predatory_… but that wasn't right, was it?

Instincts screaming at him to be as cautious as possible, Harry carefully made his way closer, making sure to have his wand firmly in his hand. Sure, he didn't know much about dueling—Lockhart, in the end, had been useless in so many ways—but the boy still knew _some_ spells. And _something_, really, was always better than _nothing_. "Tom, what are you doing here? Outside of the diary?" Harry asked, bottom lip bitten nervously as Tom's gaze continued to track him.

The boy was reminded then of the one time he had watched Leopold, Mrs. Figgs' big tomcat, corner a mouse. The smaller creature had been shivering, eyes caught by Leopold's large golden ones—any movement, no matter how small, Leopold had tracked. In a way, it had been fascinating to watch the cat's pupils expand and contract with the intensity of his gaze: but then, in the end, there had been blood and carnage and death, and Harry had wished that he had managed to get the little mouse away from Leopold before it had been too late. But there was nothing that Harry could have done because death was always, _always_ permanent.

…_or was it?_

Looking at Tom Riddle, at how real he seemed, brought gooseflesh to Harry's skin, and the boy wrapped his arms around his middle as he debated the wisdom in perhaps making his way closer. The Gryffindor—for once—decided to err on the side of caution and instead stayed out of range, eyes firmly trained upon the charismatic teen.

"Why aren't you saying anything, Tom?"

If anything, Tom's smile turned that much more chilly in response to Harry's whispered question—almost as if he were enjoying his young "friend"'s fright. The older boy's dark eyes seemed to lighten to a shade of amber, showing his delight, and Tom's lips curled deeper into a Cheshire's grin. "Are you frightened of me, Harry? Why? We're friends, aren't we?" the boy asked, trying ever so hard to keep his tone innocent—but the smile, oh, _the smile_ gave it away, and Harry couldn't stop the small step backwards.

Harry was a Gryffindor, and Gryffindors were supposed to be brave—courageous people, people who weren't afraid of anything. They could stand up to whatever came their way, voicing their thoughts, and staying still with chests proudly displayed at their unwavering decision to stand before whatever it was that they faced off. But… the Hat had _also_ wanted to put Harry in Slytherin, and perhaps it was that part of him that whispered softly to him, urging him to _run run run_, feet pattering upon the stone ground and quick as the beating of a Snidget's wings; _run run run_, far away, _quickly away_, there is danger here and there is a very real chance that you will _die_.

"…yes…" Harry began cautiously, shifting from foot to foot as he watched Tom from beneath his lashes. "But, still, you haven't answered my question, Tom. The one from before. Why are you outside of the diary? How…?" It should have been impossible, shouldn't it have? The other boy was, technically, no more than a memory—and yet here he was, _alive_.

Tom laughed at that, and Harry jumped slightly in surprise over how _happy_ that sound was. It was a gleeful sound, one full of contentment and celebration—the type of laugh that Harry used to give when he got his test results back, the results that he used to get before Uncle Vernon had cuffed him upside the head—after that, the "freak" always made sure to do worse than Dudley, no matter how well he knew his material.

Tom's eyes hooded at that, and Harry swallowed in reaction as the look in his gaze turned _darker_. "Most people would have thought that my leaving the diary was impossible, don't you think, Harry?" the teenage boy began, tone musing. "But I had help escaping the diary—and, in the end, nothing is impossible when you have _friends_."

Friends…

Harry's eyes widened abruptly as he was forced to leave behind his surprise and recalled the original reason why he had come down to the Chamber of Secrets—his friend, his best mate, _Ron_ had been left behind and Harry was supposed to be looking for Ginny. To save her! If he didn't… if he didn't, who knew what would happen to her!

As Harry was thinking these thoughts, there was a gentle prickling in his mind: a ticklish sensation, a bit of pressure—the start of a headache that centered upon his scar. It had all come on rather abruptly, and Harry frowned as he broke gaze with Tom, glancing away and rubbing absently at his forehead. He did take the time, however, to take a quick glance about the chamber to see if he could spot Ginny in the immediate vicinity.

"You can't help her, you know," Tom began conversationally, to which Harry's eyes shot up once more to look the other boy in the face. "It's too late for her. Poor Ginny Weasley, the misunderstood daughter of a pureblood family… The _only _daughter, the little girl on whom her mother has all her hopes pinned upon."

Harry swallowed at that, throwing his shoulder back in the way that a Gryffindor was supposed to do so, brave and right and true. "How do you know all of that about Ginny?" the boy asked. "You've never met her before. You shouldn't know her at all, shouldn't know _any_ of that stuff."

There was one expression that Harry had learned to recognize early on during his time at the Dursleys. The knowledge, the recognition of that expression had oftentimes been the difference in being allowed to have a meal and being sent to the cupboard with no food in his belly—followed by several days of the same regiment. That expression always brought a dark light to the Dursleys' eyes, Dudley's gaze brightening with mean intent, and in its onslaught Harry knew abject misery.

The expression that Harry had learned to recognize so well: cruelty.

Smile dark, dark, _dark_—black as midnight when there was no moon in the sky above Hogwarts—Tom Marvolo Riddle Jr. took one step to the side, twitching his robes to the side. The thick wool fabric and Tom's own form had hidden the body originally from view. Seeing a splash of pretty auburn hair spread like silk over the gray of the stone floor, Harry gasped in fear and immediately ran forward.

"Ginny… _Ginny!_ Wake up, Ginny!" the boy called, falling to his knees before reaching out and gathering the still girl to his chest. He shook her, though still careful to support most of her dead weight—hands gently cradling the back of the redheaded girl's head, tears coming to Harry's eyes. "Don't be dead—wake up! _Please_ wake up, Ginny!"

"She won't wake," Tom murmured and, at hearing how close the other's voice was, Harry glanced up before flinching roughly when Tom's hand came out to linger briefly over the arch of Harry's cheekbone. "She's still alive, true, but only just. But she won't wake."

It felt… uncomfortable… when Tom touched him. Harry didn't want the other to do it again. Giving himself an excuse, Harry ducked his head and hunched his body so that he could hover protectively over Ginny.

"She's as cold as…" the boy whispered, chaffing one of her hands between his palms. Her hands were ice, frozen solid against Harry's palms, and her face continued to pale until her skin became as white as bone. And the boy, the silver-tongued boy, smiled like a snake through it all—and though trepidation prickled and raised the hairs at the nape of his neck, Harry did his utmost to ignore the older boy. "I have to get her out of here. I have to save her!"

"I'm sorry, Harry, but that won't be possible."

For the first time, Harry finally _heard _the sibilant edge to Tom's words, the serpentine way that twined about the _s_'s and rounded out the vowels. _Parseltongue_. But the only other people that Harry knew that had spoken Parseltongue were Salazar Slytherin and…

Slowly, Harry lifted his head—finally paying attention to what lay before him. "She needs to go to Madam Pomfrey," Harry said, trying so very, very hard to keep the fear from his voice. "She'll die if we don't. And… Tom. I need that wand back. It belongs to Ginny. It's hers, and I have to take it with me when I bring her to the Hospital Wing."

"She won't be needing it," the Slytherin prefect said, quietly chuckling as his gaze turned that much more intent upon Harry, that much more sinister. "You see, Harry, as poor Ginny Weasley grows weaker, I grow stronger. And soon, very soon, she will be _dead_."

"_No!_"

Harry put his entire being, his _refusal_ to accept such a fate into that word of rejection, and the boy huddled down to promptly gather as much of Ginny's unresponsive weight into his arms. He wasn't strong enough to carry her and so the raven-haired Gryffindor tried his best to drag her away from the Chamber of Secrets, away from _Tom_ without causing further harm.

Again, the prefect chuckled and flicked his new wand at Harry, causing the boy to fly away from the girl's still form—blasted from Ginny's side by a non-verbal spell. "I'm sorry, Harry," the Slytherin began, tone conversational. "But I can't allow you to save her. With her death comes my revival—and, _oh_, I will once more be _very much alive_."

The Gryffindor boy groaned from where he had roughly landed, groggy and smarting; Harry hadn't managed to land gracefully and, because of that, had slammed his head against the stone beneath his back. His glasses had fallen off, clattering who knew where. Still, though, that didn't mean that Harry wasn't completely without fight:

"_Expelliarmus!_" Harry yelled out, saying one of the few spells that he had learned in the short dueling lesson—one of the few times that Lockhart and Snape both had come in handy.

"_Incendio_," Tom murmured in answer, easily sidestepping the hastily thrown charm. Once more, his stolen wand was in motion, easily going through the gestures necessary for this particular charm—and, soon enough, Harry to frantically dodge to avoid the fireballs that were flying intently upon him.

The Gryffindor _did _manage to dodge in time, but only just: the very tips of Harry's hair was singed and a cough-inducing scent filled the air within the Chamber of Secrets due to that near-miss. Bringing his forearm up to shield his nose and mouth, Harry then snapped out, "_Impedimenta!_"

Tom laughed and laughed and laughed _and laughed._

"Harry, you should know better now," the diary's spirit purred softly, wand once more in action and pinning the boy to the wall next to Slytherin's large statue. Harry grunted in pain as his head again slammed against a hard surface and, briefly, the world spun crazily. "Sending silly impediment curses and disarming charms won't work in this type of situation—not when it comes down to life or death. You are nothing but a foolish, _simple_ boy who couldn't have possibly ever defeated the greatest wizard of all time!"

Hurting and pretty certain that he had a concussion, the Gryffindor still had his backbone—and couldn't silence the bit of cheek before the words were already out of his mouth. "You're wrong, Tom! _Albus Dumbledore_ is the one who's the greatest wizard in the world, now and always!"

Despite his lack of glasses, it was still clear when Tom Riddle sneered widely in response. "_Albus Dumbledore_ has been frightened away from these 'sacred halls' by the mere _memory_ of me, boy. _CRUCIO!_"

* * *

The pain.

The pain was something that Harry had never before experienced. Uncle Vernon and Dudley could have beaten him nonstop for years at a time, and the pain wouldn't have come anywhere close to _this_. Saying that there was pain, that it hurt—no words could truly express the _depth_ of Harry's suffering.

He screamed.

He screamed.

_He screamed._

**_He screamed._**

Throat raw, cries escaping from parted lips at a constant rate—the screams, they never stopped, not while the pain was as great as it was—and Harry's body trembled and jerked in the spell's hold; his limbs twitched in such a way that one would have thought that Tom had instead cast _Tarantallegra_ upon the boy. But the parted lips and expression contorted in pain gave lie to that much more benign spell, and Harry's mouth twisted in a rictus of soul-deep pain.

Harry wished he were dead.

* * *

When the spell ended, it did so abruptly, and the young boy could only sob in relief when the agony finally ceased. His limbs still tremored with the memory of the pain, muscles sporadically twitching against the bindings that still held the Gryffindor against the chill wall.

"…why…?" Harry breathed, head hanging low so that his chin rested against his chest. He couldn't even find the energy within his body to look up into Tom's eyes. Everything hurt, everything ached, and Harry felt as if his body had aged one hundred years in just the several moments that he had been held beneath the horrible curse that the other boy had cast at him.

"It is the least that you deserve," Tom sneered before making his way towards Ginny Weasley. His foot nudged the still girl, turning her over onto her back—checking for signs of life, and it was with a small, self-satisfied smile that he saw that her chest no longer rose and fell with each breath. She was dead. And he, _he_ was _alive_ again. "Everything that I have worked for since my entrance into Hogwarts—all of Salazar Slytherin's noble work that I had hoped to carry out—you destroyed _everything_ in an _instant_."

"I don't… know…"

Tom strode over to Harry's still-trembling form; the Slytherin reached out, fingers threading roughly in the boy's hair and yanked Harry's head upwards with a cruel tug. »_Look_,« the Slytherin hissed spitefully and wrote out TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE in burning, sharp letters. It was hard for Harry to focus—but the edge to Tom's voice made sure that Harry did, indeed, _look_. What other choice did he have?

Slowly but surely, those letters began to rearrange themselves, jumbling together into an incomprehensible mess—but, after a moment or two that stretched on for much longer, sense began to form. Words began to arrange themselves. And Harry was left to stare.

**I AM LORD VOLDEMORT.**

»Voldemort has always been my past, present, and _future_.« Tom Marvolo Riddle, heir to Slytherin, whispered against the shell of Harry's ear as the words burned as bright as the heart of a star.

This was… this was impossible.

It couldn't be happening.

He was supposed to have come down here, defeated the basilisk so that he could save Ginny. He wasn't supposed to have faced off against _Lord Voldemort_—and, even if he had had to, Harry thought that he was supposed to have defeated him. Just like last year. Good was always supposed to triumph in the end—because evil was otherwise too horrible to contemplate. _Good was supposed to win._

The boy sobbed, tears trickling down his dirty cheeks, and Tom laughed gaily at that. "You know, Harry, I was originally going to let the basilisk kill you, but… I've come up with a _much_ better plan now." The Slytherin boy stepped away from Harry then, arms spreading wide as a specter that was covered from head to toe in black phantasmic robes began to slowly appear; it circled Tom, much like a shark did with its prey, and each circle brought it closer and closer to the still boy.

There was a sudden flash of light—green, as green as Harry's eyes, and a woman's high scream—and the creature moved forward and _merged_ with Tom. The other's body bowed up at the immediate surge of power that filled the Chamber of Secrets, and a maniacal laugh echoed eerily through the different caverns.

When Tom finally looked at Harry once more, the Gryffindor saw that the other's dark eyes had been stained the color of rich, blood-tainted ruby. Pupils were cat-slitted, assessing and _hungry_ as they looked Harry over: and the boy knew that _these _were the eyes that always featured in his worst nightmares, the ones where he still woke with a pounding heart and a barely audible cry for his mother and father.

Evil.

This creature was _evil_.

Tom slowly smiled and began to once more make his way closer to the bound boy. "I won't kill you, Harry. I promise that I won't," Slytherin's heir crooned in an eerie way. "I learned my lesson from last time—you and I, we are linked to one another. Attempting to kill you… ah, it destroyed me. But lessons must be learned and, this time, I have a _much_ better plan."

Voldemort-Tom sauntered over so that he could stand in front of Harry, fingers curling tight around the Gryffindor's left wrist. The Slytherin yanked Harry's arm straight, forcing it to be still with a hold that was more than just human; he let the tip of his new wand linger against the virginal, clean skin of Harry's forearm. And then he spoke the spell that he had created.

"_Morsmordre_."


	3. Mannaz

**CHAPTER THREE  
Mannaz**

**

* * *

**

**Mann** byþ on myrgþe his magan leof:  
sceal þeah anra gehwylc oðrum swican,  
forðum drihten wyle dome sine  
þæt earme flæsc eorþan betæcan.

_Joyous __**man**__ is dear to his kinsmen;  
yet every man is doomed to fail his fellow,  
since the Lord by his decree will commit the vile carrion to the earth. _

_

* * *

_

Ginny Weasley was dead.

It was one thing to realize that intellectually, but it was quite another to settle down upon the stone tiles next to her body, reaching out to take one hand in his own and attempt to chafe warmth into the chilled flesh. Nothing he did helped, though, for the redheaded girl still remained as cold as ice.

As cold as death.

Because she _was_ dead.

Harry continued to sit next to the girl's still body, gently rubbing his thumbs over the backs of her hands—trying, desperately so, to bring warmth back into her limbs. Nothing he did helped, though, and that was because Harry knew that he had been too late. An innocent girl, one that he had adored, was dead and Evil had managed to triumph over Good. Karma had unbalanced itself, and it was _so hard_ not to bow his head down and cry.

It was so much harder to resist doing so when his left arm throbbed with every beat of his heart, the pain echoing in time with his own body until it seemed as if they were all just one and the same: the pain would not cease, no matter what Harry did. Hunched in on himself, Harry scooted closer to Ginny's frozen form and shifted just enough so that he could desperately clutch at his pain-filled arm, fingers digging in tight over the raw skin.

It hurt, but it was a good type of hurt because it meant that _he_ was the one causing it.

Hours later, that was how they finally found him: clutching desperately at his arm and huddled protectively over the Weasley girl's cool body. McGonagall took one look at the situation before crying out in horror, feet practically flying over the stones of the Chamber's floor so that she could get to her little Lions as quickly as possible. The Headmaster, however, could only look away, eyes dark with mourning and regrets that he would never be able to voice aloud—too many there were, too few too late.

And Ron… poor, sweet Ron.

He caught one sight of Ginny's not-moving body and he gave a cry that was hoarse, the coughing cry of a raven over a battlefield: the cry of loss, of horror at what lay before him. The redheaded boy pulled away from Dumbledore and ran after McGonagall. His youth was what enabled him to bypass his Transfiguration professor, and the youngest Weasley boy tumbled down to the ground as he immediately began to frantically shake his baby sister.

"Ginny! Ginny, _wake up!_" he immediately screamed, palms pressed tight against his sister's shoulders as the desperate shaking continued. However: she did not open her eyes and her form remained too quietly still beneath his touch. He continued to shake and shake and _shake_ her, knowing that she would not be opening her eyes, but still daring to hope that something would change within the next several seconds—that they were all mistaken because they had to be wrong. _They had to be wrong_.

"Mr. Weasley, you need to stop now," McGonagall whispered, voice heavy with sorrow. The normally strict woman's Scottish burr thickened with understanding and kindness, and the older woman carefully wrapped her arm around Ron's shoulder to gently pull him away from Ginny.

Ron choked on a sob, hands trembling as McGonagall began to methodically draw him away from his sister's body—her dead body, the body that would no longer be animated with life, with personality, _with Ginny_. Another sob came, and this one hiccupped from deep within his chest. He didn't want to accept it.

And so, instead, he chose to blame.

"_You were supposed to save her!_" Ron suddenly screamed; with eyes that were wild with pain and loss, the boy launched himself at his best friends, fists flying and pounding down. There was a satisfyingly loud _crack_ and _crunch_ of bone breaking, and Ron allowed his fury and despair to fuel each and every strike as his words echoed and bounced off of the Chamber's walls. "Last year, you were able to save the Stone! A _thing_! So why couldn't you have saved my _little sister_? You were supposed to! _You were supposed to!_"

Harry never made a sound.

Snape was the one who finally managed to pull Ron off of Harry, fingers digging tight in the collar of Ron's robes as the Potions Master gave the boy a firm shake, the way that a mother dog or cat would do to her wayward child. "Mr. Weasley," the black-clad snapped, voice harsh. "_Control yourself_. A tragedy has happened here, and you are brawling like some sort of uncivilized Muggle in the streets."

Ron didn't say anything in answer to the scolding: instead, his breath panted out audibly, and his gaze sparked with fury—and with hatred—as he glared darkly at Harry, puppy eyes nearly black with negative emotion. Seeing it, Harry flinched and glanced away, holding a handkerchief up to his broken nose so that he could stop the blood flow until he got the chance to see Madam Pomfrey.

"Come, boys," McGonagall said, voice subdued. She reached out and gathered a shivering Harry close, gesturing for Ron to follow the both of them. "It's time to leave this place behind."

Ron stared up, horrified, at McGonagall once the professor's words had been processed. "We… we can't just _leave_! We can't leave her here! It's not _right_! Professor…!"

Body language surprisingly motherly, the Scottish witch led both of her charges away from the dead girl, hands gentle on both of their shoulders. "She won't be staying here, Mr. Weasley. We'll have people bring her up, and…" Here, McGonagall's voice hitched quietly. "And then we'll contact your family regarding what happened, and all of the adults will begin to organize Miss Weasley's memorial and funeral."

_A funeral_, Harry thought, eyes downcast. He had been to a funeral once—when Uncle Vernon's father had died. The Dursleys had had no choice but to take Harry with them since Mrs. Figg had been out of town that time. The funeral had been a horrible experience, one filled with the heavy, cloying scent of incense—and seeing the gray, waxy face in the coffin had been an image that had haunted Harry for months afterwards. Thinking that the same thing would happen with Ginny's funeral, that the wizards and her family would try to give her a semblance of life—but she'd still be dead…

Harry pulled away from McGonagall as the thought overwhelmed him, scurrying over to the side before he fell to his knees and was violently sick, vomit mixing with the blood from his still-dripping nose and his stomach heaved and heaved and _heaved _until encompassing _emptiness_ was the only thing that the Gryffindor boy could feel.

Pain and sorrow and loneliness: regret that he hadn't been faster to save Ginny, self-disgust that he had been defeated so easily by Tom Riddle—by Lord _Voldemort_, no matter the fact that the Dark Lord had been nothing more than a fifteen year-old boy. Harry wanted so desperately to just find some place to hide, some place where he might curl up and sob out the hopelessness that he felt—Marked now, branded to a _boy_ that would _again_ grow up to be the Darkest wizard that the world had ever known. There was no chance for Harry to fight against him because now he was owned by Voldemort.

The older boy had laughed after the Mark burned its way into Harry's arm, manic laughter softening to deep-throated chuckles when Harry's screams of pain finally trickled off into soft, broken whimpers.

"You carry my Mark now," Tom Riddle had hissed against Harry's ear, breath hot and _real_ as it brushed against his skin. "You can never raise a hand against me, you can never disobey me. You are _mine_ now, Harry Potter, mine in a way that you can never escape—mine in a way that you can never deny."

His fingers had dug into Harry's hair, yanking the twelve year-old's head back so that the child was forced to meet Riddle's now-crimson gaze. It was then that Harry knew that something had changed—that he really _was_ the Dark Lord's—and the clue came when the other didn't crumble to ash the way that Quirrell had the year before. He didn't know why, didn't know what was different, what had _changed_ to make this difference—but it was there and Harry was helpless before the slow, sadistic curl of Riddle's smile. _He was helpless_, and it wasn't until now that the realization truly dawned upon him.

"I don't want this," Harry whispered as a lone tear trickled from the corner of his eye.

The young Dark Lord snorted softly at that, touch almost infinitely gentle as he wiped away the other boy's tear with the pad of his thumb, drying Harry's face and keeping it clear of any other sign of sorrow. It was a make-believe, a play that both were aware of and a scene that Riddle forced Harry to go through with: Riddle's apparent concern and the fact that Harry had nothing to mourn. "Life isn't fair, dear Harry. You and I both know this all too well."

Tom Riddle suddenly yanked at the strands of hair in his hand, jerking away—Harry cried out in sudden pain and, briefly, he could see black hair caught around several of Riddle's fingers before the teen carelessly shook them away, letting them float through the air with the grace of a butterfly's wing before settling limply upon the stone underfoot.

The teen had flicked a quick smile at Harry then, eyes shifting with muted hellfire, and finally stepped away after releasing Harry from his magical, invisible bonds with a flick of his wrist and a wave of his wand. Harry slumped forward and fell to his knees, exhausted mentally and physically, and didn't bother to pick himself up to watch Riddle begin to walk away.

"We'll be in touch, Harry," the one-time spirit called over the slim curve of a shoulder, still chuckling lightly, and stepped into the shadows that spread wide—wings flaring upwards in a welcoming embrace—before coming down with an audible gasp to veil Riddle from view. An amused echo was the only thing that lingered: "We'll be in touch again very, _very_ soon."

For now, that had been the last that Harry had seen of Voldemort, née Tom Riddle, and he had, movements incredibly slow, meticulously managed to drag himself over to Ginny's body—curling around her in the way that he was when the professors and Ron finally joined him.

And, what was worst of all, was the fact that Harry couldn't _speak _of what had happened.

The boy tried, truly did, when the professors first came onto the scene. He had glanced up, watching them with a dull gaze, and had opened his mouth so that he could tell them that Ginny was dead and that the Dark Lord had made his revival. The words formed when he was about to talk about Ginny, but… when Harry was going to mention Tom Riddle, the Dark Mark burned suddenly and a sensation of fingers wrapping snug around his throat suddenly manifested. Words were impossible for breath was short—and though the intent was there, Harry remained mute.

After the second attempt—a second attempt with the same consequences—Harry remained quiet and the fingers gently stroked themselves over his throat in reward, light caresses that soothed away the sting of their earlier grasp.

It didn't matter, though, that the physical hurt was fading. The despair remained.

The despair _deepened_—

And it solidified several hours later when Harry approached his redheaded best friend after Madam Pomfrey had retreated from the Infirmary for the night. Nose fixed and ordered to stay overnight for "observation," it still didn't stop Harry from sliding from his bed to pad on silent feet over to where Ron was. "Mate…?"

"Don't call me that," came the sullen answer as the other boy hunched in his shoulders in a very obvious dismissal. Harry swallowed audibly at that, blinking his lashes rapidly to keep the tears from falling, and reached out to lay his hand on Ron's shoulder. The redhead actually snarled at that, jerking away from Harry's touch. "_Don't!_ I don't want you anywhere _near_ me! _You killed my sister!_"

"I didn't…" the green-eyed Gryffindor began, voice slightly breathless in his anguish. "I tried to save her. I really, really did, Ron. I ran as fast as I could."

"But it wasn't fast enough," Ron snapped. "What's the point of being famous, of being the miracle baby that killed You-Know-Who, what's the point of being the Savior of the Wizarding World if you can't even save _one _person? _Huh?_ Tell me, Potter!"

"…I don't know what you want me to say."

"Then don't say anything," the redhead said viciously. "And stay away from me and my family." He turned over roughly then, again presenting his back to Harry's pricking eyes. The tears were there, trembling at the very tips of his lashes, but the boy knew that Ron would only look at them in disgust.

He was very angry with Harry.

But… but… maybe he'd forgive Harry in time?

Still silent, the raven-haired boy slowly turned away from his best friend, shuffling back to his own bed before climbing in. His movements were careful, moving gingerly as an old man would—aches and pains that hadn't plagued Harry for years were springing up one by one, and it was all he could do to keep a tight lid on his emotions.

It was with a heavy heart that Harry drew the blankets around his shivering frame.

Things would hopefully look better in the morning.

…or so Harry would have thought if he didn't already know better. Things never looked up in the morning because the events of the night, the day before always had repercussions. Things never just _went away_, no matter how much a person wished otherwise. Thinking that they would was a naïve hope, and Harry was smarter than that.

As the boy closed his eyes for the last time that night, he felt a phantom touch slowly card fingers through his hair, and Riddle's quiet chuckle whispered as soft as a butterfly's kiss against the shell of the twelve year-old's ear.

Stifling a sob, Harry forced himself to sleep.

* * *

_Author's Note:_ Put up a bit early since I'll be busy tomorrow. From this point on, however, the story will be updated on Wednesdays. It's next chapter, as well, that the main part of the story will begin, and there _will_ be a time skip—so consider yourselves forewarned~ Thank you, also, for all of your reviews! *hearts*


	4. Hagalaz

_Author's Note:_ Up earlier than expected for all of you—mainly because my dinner consisted of Pixy Stix and I have energy to burn. XD Anyway, relatively (very) short chapter, but that's because it's seen as an interlude of sorts. The actual chapter that you're expecting will be out on Wednesday. I just wanted to get this one out of the way now.

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR  
Hagalaz**

**

* * *

**

**Hægl** byþ hwitust corna; hwyrft hit of heofones lyfte,  
wealcaþ hit windes scura; weorþeþ hit to wætere syððan.

_**Hail**__ is the whitest of grain;  
it is whirled from the vault of heaven  
and is tossed about by gusts of wind  
and then it melts into water._

_

* * *

_

**Hogwarts School  
**_**of**_** Witchcraft **_**and**_** Wizardry**

**Headmaster: You-Know-Who**_**  
(Supreme Dark Lord; **_**Master and Lord of Britian; Heir to Salazar Slytherin, First Founder; Chief Warlock**_**)**_

Dear **,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,  
**Minerva McGonagall**  
Minerva McGonagall,  
_Deputy Headmistress_

_

* * *

_

**Hogwarts School  
**_**of**_** Witchcraft **_**and**_** Wizardry**

Uniform**  
**First-year students will require:  
1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)  
2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear  
3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)  
4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)  
Please note that all pupil's clothes should carry name tags

Course Books  
All students should have a copy of each of the following:  
_The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_  
by Miranda Goshawk  
_Eden Regained: The Rise of the Dark Lord & Britain's Takeover_  
by Lorelei Loneshark  
_Magical Theory_  
by Adalbert Waffling  
_A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_  
by Emeric Switch  
_One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_  
by Phyllida Spore  
_Magical Drafts and Potions_  
by Arsenius Jigger  
_Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_  
by Newt Scamander  
_The Dark Arts: A Practical Guide  
_by You-Know-Who

Other Equipment  
1 wand  
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)  
1 set glass or crystal phials  
1 telescope  
1 set brass scales

Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad.  
_PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS  
**_ Please note that Professor Binns is no longer the professor for History of Magic. Previous years' textbooks will not be accepted.

* * *

**Eden Regained: The Rise of the Dark Lord & Britain's Takeover**_  
A Condensed Historical Account of Modern Times_, By Lorelei Loneshark

Over the course of history, Britian has stood as the sole national force that has managed to stand firm against the onslaught of rising Dark Lords. The Continent had her fair share of Dark Lords—the most recent, as you know, being Gellert Grindelwald—but Britain has managed to rise above the machinations of other countries and has thus managed to remain the lone, stable foundation as other nations, other peoples have torn themselves apart due to the constant battle between Light and Dark. As most of you know, the only truly dangerous Dark Lord that Britain has produced in the past was thousands of years ago: Modred, who was put to rest through the actions of his father, Arthur Pendragon, and the genius wizard Merlin. While other scholars have proposed that the true reason why Merlin had defeated Mordred lies in the fact that the famous wizard was a cambion and thus felt threatened by Mordred's Dark presence, that is not the focus of _this_ particular work.

Instead, this novel will take the time to examine the previous rise and fall of the true Dark Lord, and examine the incidents that led to his final—and, as proven, complete—rise in power during the summer of 1996.

First, we must begin our story at the very start: however, the irony in this situation lies in the very fact that _no one_ quite knows where to begin. There had been whispers of activity from a Dark Lord since the early 1970s, but there had been no proof. Because of this, modern society lulled itself into a sense of comfort and security, not knowing that the Dark Lord's presence would shock and crumble the very basic formulae of our civilization's perceptions. When the rumors had first begun to fade, the Dark Lord struck in his first raid. Muggles died at the end of his wand, Mudbloods ran in terror at the justice that he represented, and the Dark Lord began his first reign over our people. By the time the late 1970s came about, every witch and wizard in our world knew the Dark Lord's name, almost all fearing the name to the point that he soon became known as _You-Know-Who_ or _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_.

Fear continued to grow until only Undesirable Number One, who then went by the name of Albus Dumbledore, had the audacity to continue to speak the Dark Lord's name, claiming that "Fear of a name only leads to fear of the object itself" as his reasoning for such blatant disrespect towards the Dark Lord. To further spite the great changes that the our Lord sought to bring about, the Undesirable then proceeded to create his own vigilante army, then titled _The Order of the Phoenix_ in a self-flattering and exceedingly pompous reference to himself (and his overgrown turkey, Fawkes). While the underground resistance continued to strike forward, the Dark Lord's power continued to solidify. His reach extended into every major institution within Britain until nothing that was government-run remained untouched and under his influence.

The continued rise to power seemed inevitable; one might even claim that it had been ordained by God.

However, as we all know, this was not yet meant to be.

On All Hallow's Eve in the year 1981, our Lord went to pay a visit to one of the most vocal supporters of Undesirable Number One, the Potter family. There, in a freak accident and a demonstration of the power of a mother's sacrificial love, Lily Potter met her demise... and so did our Lord. No one quite understands what happened exactly, and the Dark Lord has continued to remain silent on the subject. One can only suppose that this is due to his caution, the determination that never will such a mistake happen again and once more set back his master plans even longer.

Death, however, was only the beginning:

The might of the Dark Lord brought him back to life (there are some who theorize that the spells that brought about his revival also contributed to his immortal status, though one can only hypothesize); in the spring of 1993, the bravery of one Ginerva Weasley brought about our Dark Lord's return, though few at that point in time knew of his revival.

In the years that followed, one can only guess as to what our Lord did: certainly, as current proof demonstrates, he began to once more lay his plans for his final and complete resurrection. Years passed, months slowly ticked on by, and the wizarding world remained clueless as to their Savior's true return. The Dark Lord refuses to comment upon what it was that he had done during these years, so there must always be a blank slate until the Dark Lord finally decides to bring illumination to us, his people.

However, one fact will always remain the same:

Our lives changed forever on the night of July 31st, 1996.

With an army of five hundred Death Eaters, most of whom now remain in his Upper Ranks, the Dark Lord descended upon the Ministry in a move that would forever change the course of our history, and with his Right Hand at his side, the Dark Lord slew the corrupt Minister and then...

* * *

It was the 31st of July, 1997, and Harry could only stare down at the new book that had made its way into the Hogwarts curriculum. His lip curled at the words that were printed out on the crisp paper of the textbook, and the dark-haired teen swallowed harshly to keep the bile that lingered in his belly from sicking up. It was... _disgusting_... the changes that had been made in less than a year, and here was the proof: history rewritten so that the new generation could be brainwashed to follow Britain's current Lord.

There was a chuckle from just over his shoulder, and a black-clad form meandered its way over to drape itself over Harry's back, ignoring how the teen stiffened in dislike. "You know that I've scolded you enough times on learning how to hide your disdain for this new regime, dearest Harry. The others in the Inner Circle will most certainly be able to feel it if it remains as strong as it is now throughout our little meeting." The green-eyed boy felt lips brush against the bend of his throat, the foreign weight settling closer as lithe arms came 'round to wrap around his waist.

The Potter heir's upper lip curled higher still in an expression that had been completely adopted from Severus Snape, and he twisted in the other's hold so that he might lash out: his fist connected solidly with a cheek, hard enough to certainly leave behind a bruise, but unfortunately there hadn't been enough force to break bones.

A hiss, then:

And Harry found himself pinned to the stone wall of his sitting room with pale, spider-like fingers wrapped around his throat, keeping his feet just barely brushing against the floor beneath him. Gasping for breath, the Gryffindor scrabbled at the hold, trying to force it to release him so that he might breathe.

All the while, verdant-green, _angry_ eyes stared into the crimson gaze of Tom Marvolo Riddle.

"_Behave,_ dear Harry. Or I'll have to _punish_ you."


	5. Uruz

_Author's Note:_ Just wanted to drop a line and say thanks for being willing to put up with the leap ahead in time. *laughs* I promise that things will become clear and that you won't have to rely solely on the textbook excerpt to piece together just what happened between 1992 (well, technically 1993 since the Incident happened at the end of the school year…) and 1996/1997. There will be flashbacks, musings on past events, etc. Just give it time, please~ *hearts* Anyway, enjoy this chapter; I know that I'm excited since this is the official start of the story! (And another early update for you all, for which you can thank the little songbird that has decided that three a.m. is _most definitely_ an awesome time to start singing. ._.;;)

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE  
Uruz**

**

* * *

**

**Ur** byþ anmod ond oferhyrned,  
felafrecne deor, feohteþ mid hornum  
mære morstapa; þæt is modig wuht.

_**Aurochs**__ is proud and has great horns;  
it is a very savage beast and fights with its horns;  
a great ranger of the moors, it is a creature of mettle._

_

* * *

_

_July 31__st__, 1997_

The situation was, truly, the epitome of irony:

The black-clad figure reclined at the base of the elegant, ebon-dark throne that belonged to Tom Riddle—the twenty year-old man that the rest of the wizarding world referred to as either Voldemort or, more commonly, You-Know-Who. With hooded eyes, the figure watched as Death Eater after Death Eater approached the dais and fell to his or her knees, kneeling prostrate and murmuring nonsense words of praise.

It was ironic—

The two nights of the year that Tom brought in his Inner Circle always fell on July 31st and December 31st, both evenings deliberately picked though none of the Death Eaters would know the true reason _why_.

The body that sprawled listlessly at the Dark Lord's feet was a lithe one, slim—almost to the point of surreality, ethereal-light wrist bones peeking out from the sleeves of the figure's Death Eater robes—with most of his face obscured by the mask that had been assigned to the Dark Lord's Right Hand: it was a mask that left the person's lower face uncovered, though only the Cupid's bow of a lower lip was truly the distinguishable feature. The covering was silver, the metal so old—the mask itself ancient—that it had become tarnished beyond all repair.

The half-mask was, standing alone, a beautiful work of art, though some might have otherwise considered its design grotesque: the nose etched down to form into a cruel, hooked beak of a bird of prey, the very tip just long enough to dimple the very middle of the figure's upper lip. The eyewells of the mask obscured the Right Hand's gaze, making it so that only darkness glanced out at the assembled audience below. No one knew of this figure's true identity, no one knew what this figure looked like from the shape of its cheekbones to the color of its eyes.

Most visitors to the Hall kept their gazes averted, anyway, because the mask had one final component that made them uneasy. A pair of deadly-sharp horns, onyx and obsidian and glittering with the heart of hellfire, dipped down from the very edge of the top of the mask and the depths of the figure's hood, framing the hidden face with mystery and an almost demonic element: no true wizard believed in demons any longer, but with this particular figure and its veiled gaze… no true wizard would _admit_ it, but they feared that their Dark Lord had managed to do the impossible.

There had always been whispers, been rumors—but never any true confirmation, which only deepened the feelings of dread and fear each and every time one of the Death Eaters glanced over to the being that cloaked itself in shadows.

It did not help, either, that that silhouetted figure always seemed to be laughing at them.

"My Lord," one of the Death Eaters murmured lightly towards the end of the gathering. The figure stepped forward and bowed low at the waist—which then caused platinum-blonde hair to slip out from the folds of his hood: starlight, purest light, glimmering against the color of infinity. Funny how it was _Lucius Malfoy_ that invoked that particular image, Tom Riddle's Right Hand thought sardonically to itself. Unaware of the thoughts being aimed at him, the Malfoy patriarch continued, "The _Svartálfar _have been contacted, and we have finally received a reply from their envoy. The People have agreed upon a meeting—they have agreed to speak with you."

"Excellent," Tom Riddle purred, crimson gaze veiled momentarily as his eyes went hooded. Lucius didn't bother to hide the pleased smirk at his Lord's words: it was incredibly hard to please their Master, and rarely did the Dark Lord ever offer up words of praise. But this diplomatic meeting between the People and Tom Riddle had taken the better part of a year to arrange, and… it was pleasant to see that his efforts had not gone in vain. He dipped his head in acknowledgement of the Dark Lord's words, smug satisfaction radiating from every pore, from every inch of his being.

Perhaps it was because Lucius had been so immersed in his own sense of self-worth—and the other Inner Circle members too cowed to meet the gaze of their Lord—that all who had assembled in the chamber missed what followed soon after:

Tom Riddle reached out, fingers well-manicured and graceful in their idle gesture, and made to caress his hand over the hood of his Right Hand. But the hidden figure shifted out of range and, then, a resounding _slap_ of skin hitting skin echoed through the stone hall as the young Dark Lord's hand was violently knocked aside. All of the assembled Death Eaters froze in shock and, one by one, they glanced up to see their Lord and their Lord's ever-present servant.

They waited with baited breathe for the punishment that was to come—

A punishment that they were not privileged to see.

"Leave us," the Lord of Britain murmured as he spared a glance for his gathered followers. The Inner Circle stirred in response, loathe to leave, and Tom's hellfire-tainted gaze flared brighter: as one, the men and women gathered winced in pain as agony shot through their collective Dark Marks. "I said, _leave us_. Now."

One by one, each wizard and witch Disapparated with nearly soundless cracks of displaced air, and eventually it was just Tom Riddle and the cloaked figure that remained within the ancient halls of the Dark Lord's private manor.

Tom's body language was lazy as the young man eased up from his throne, cat-like grace in each and every movement as the Dark Lord made his way closer to the kneeling figure. "You know better than to defy me in front of the others," the crimson-gazed man murmured as he reached out and gently pushed the plush hood from his Right Hand's head, revealing tousled, raven-dark hair.

The masked figure glanced up at that, and Tom was graced with the brief glint of springtime verdant-green, before his most _loyal _follower was scowling darkly up at him, the ever-present rebellion twined through each tense limb. "And you know that I refuse to let you touch me in front of the others. I'm not some fucking _pet_ to be stroked whenever you're pleased with your damn machinations," Harry snapped back. "Get a snake for that, or a damn cat—though I can only hope that the latter will claw your balls off when you finally manage to piss it off."

Tom's expression turned pensive at that, lips slightly pursed as he considered Harry's words. Still, though, his wand gesture was almost what one could call indolent as he flicked it towards the seventeen year-old. "_Crucio_."

The teen's mouth tightened with pain, and the agony was such that Harry crumpled to the ground beneath him: huddling in on himself as his body curled itself into a fetal position—oh, it hurt. It hurt so very, _very_ much… always, _always_, when Tom Riddle decided to use the Cruciatus Curse, the Boy-Who-Once-Lived was transported back to the time when he was twelve and was helpless to do anything to save his then-best mate's little sister. It wasn't the physical agony that was enough to break Harry, but the mental.

As always, he fought the screams—trying so hard to not give Tom the satisfaction of being the one to bring him pain, but… with the Cruciatus Curse, it was different. Either you found a way to alleviate the agony that thrummed through your body, attaching to your very nerve endings, or you die.

And so Harry screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

_And screamed_.

It wasn't until the teen was finally close to breaking that Tom cut the spell, looking down at his servant with smug, satisfied eyes. This was a game to the Dark Lord, this idle attempt at rebellion, the smart mouth, and the refusal to let him touch: it was a game, and one that he intended on winning. For now, Harry was like one of the spirited horses that the Malfoys always enjoyed purchasing—if only for the sole enjoyment of breaking the horse and making it bow its head to the bit.

Tom was the Master here, Harry the slave.

He would _make_ Harry bow his head in submission, in willing servitude.

…or so he believed. Harry knew otherwise, and he would rather die than bring himself to complete servitude, complete submission—the spark of rebellion was all he had left: pride, honor, loyalty—all had been taken from him by this one-time spirit. Pride had been taken the first time he had been forced to bow his head to this pseudo-god. Honor had been broken the first time that Harry had turned his wand on an auror, watching as Kingsley Shacklebolt went tumbled to the ground, dead from a Severing Curse to his jugular. And loyalty…? Loyalty was nothing but a farce, for Harry had been bound to the Dark Lord with chains the day that the spirit had tattoo his Dark Mark into Harry's left forearm.

No choice, no freedom, no hope.

But, still, defiance was something that he clung to, clutching it close to his chest with the desperation of a child with a security blanket that _knew_ that there were monsters under the bed and hidden within the closet. The only difference between Harry and that child resided in the sole fact that his monster had crimson eyes and enjoyed playing with its prey. He could put a name to his personal monster: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The teen's breathing was harsh, heavy and loud in the otherwise silent chamber. Tom crouched on the floor next to him, an odd, feral smile playing about his lips, and Harry turned his head weakly to the side, not wanting to look at the other man just now. Everything—and, truly, he meant _everything_—hurt.

"You know that I don't like hurting you, Harry, my little Horcrux," Tom murmured as he shifted down onto the ground so that he could pillow his Right Hand's head upon his thighs. Lightly, gently, almost sweetly, the Dark Lord began to comb his fingers slowly through the teen's hair, careful to avoid Harry's pounding temples. "But you also know that I don't like it when you try to defy me—you should know better by now. And yet… and yet. Do you know how beautiful you are in your pain?"

Tom Riddle chuckled softly at that, leaning over Harry's still body so that he might steal a kiss, not able to resist temptation what with Harry's skin flushed still and his body trembling with the aftereffects of the Cruciatus—but in such a way that Tom could pretend to himself that it was truly anticipation, was truly desire so great that it left his younger counterpart breathless.

The Dark Lord gave a soft, heated moan when his tongue coaxed Harry's mouth to part, and he gave a quiet, pleasured hiss as he deepened the kiss; his fingers continued to comb through Harry's hair before cupping the back of the teen's head in a surprisingly gentle gesture—and Tom hardened at the sight of Harry lying pliant and subservient beneath him. The boy was beautiful, powerful, and all his—and the thought of finally getting the chance to claim him, completely and thoroughly, was a delicious thought in the forefront of Tom's mind—

That is, until Harry bit him.

Tom reared back, his free hand immediately coming up to try and stop the blood from falling onto the rich material of his robes, the movement fastidious and prissy—probably learned from Lucius, came Harry's vindictive thought.

»How dare…« Tom Riddle hissed, crimson gaze flaring with rage as he finally shoved Harry away from him. The teen allowed his body to remain limp, going with the roll and forcing himself to go just a bit further so that he could put as much distance between him and the other as possible.

»Sorry,« Harry apologized, green eyes flinty as they looked up at his "Master" from where he remained sprawled on the floor. »I thought that I felt a forked tongue, and I panicked. Didn't bite you too hard, did I?«

The response was another enraged hiss, mouth bloody and curled away from his teeth in a furious snarl. Tom very much looked like a Dark Lord right then instead of the meticulous ponce that Harry thought he usually looked like, and the Gryffindor couldn't help but feel a little unease at the sight of the unrestrained fury that lit the other's eyes.

»Some day—some day very, _very _soon—you _will _submit to me, boy.«

»Not bloody likely,« Harry shot back before he considered the wisdom of egging the Dark Lord on. A small frisson of fear trembled up his spine at the sight of the Dark Lord—because _this_ was the true face of Voldemort—and the pure hate and rage that settled over his face… and Harry swallowed roughly as he waited for another _Crucio_ or, if the other was angry enough, an _Avada Kedavra_.

But, abruptly, the emotions left the Dark Lord's face in an abrupt manner, leaving it blank and composed—frighteningly so, which just worsened the sense of dread that had begun to fill the air.

»You shall learn otherwise,« Tom Riddle suddenly said before turning on his heel and leaving Harry the only presence in the huge, echoing chamber. The teen watched as his "Master" walked out of the hall, closing the door behind him with an audible _click_. And he wondered, belatedly, if perhaps he shouldn't have antagonized the Dark Lord.

But it was too late for regrets.

* * *

Hours later, a (somewhat) recuperated Harry carefully made his way down the steep steps that led down to the dank hell that was Tom's dungeons. He lengthened his stride so that he could overreach the step that was a trap—the first time that he had found himself with his ankle caught in the bear trap, Tom had made him grovel before he allowed himself to help Harry—and continued safely on his way.

There were many dungeons—too many, but that was the atmosphere of this regime—and Harry made his way past doors with moaning, broken occupants, some men or women who begged him for release or salvation or, most commonly, _death_ as he strode down the hall. Harry could do nothing for these people, however, and thus kept his gaze averted in what he knew was a cowardly manner.

He had helped bring this about, and yet Harry knew what would happen should he look at the actions that he had been forced to take too closely: he knew he would grow mad, for he was just as much a prisoner as these poor souls that were dead and didn't yet realize it.

Shivering at the train of his thoughts, Harry pushed the last door on the lefthand side open, slipping into the tiny cell, and closed the door behind him. It took only a moment to find the huddled form in the corner, and it was _so hard_ to keep the tears from his eyes as Harry began to make his way closer.

"Prongs…? Prongs, is that you?"

"Yeah, Sirius; it's me," Harry whispered softly as he made his way closer to the tortured form of his godfather. Two years, Sirius had been here in this dungeon. Tom had "rescued" the man from Azkaban, laughing all the while as he told Harry that everything he had been told about Sirirus Black's betrayal had been false: it hadn't been the one-time Black heir that had sold his parents to death. It had been Peter Pettigrew.

That time…

That time had been the only time that Harry had willingly killed. As Tom Riddle's words rang loudly between the two of them, the green-eyed boy, the once upon a time noble Gryffindor, had turned his head to the side like a lion intent upon the hunt. His eyes had met the pudgy little rat's, and Harry didn't bother to hide his hard, vindictive smile as he shot off an _Avada Kedavra_. It had been surprisingly _easy_, shockingly simple to kill, and Harry shivered at the sense of _rightness_ that spread through his body at the knowledge that he had been the hand of Vengeance.

However, that hadn't stopped Tom from punishing him later on that same evening.

Harry had barely been capable of walking, but stumbling, crawling from time to time, shuffling like an old man—it didn't matter how, but Harry had managed to make his way down to the dungeons after his punishment so that he could meet his godfather.

It hadn't been what Harry had expected.

"James, I had another nightmare," Sirius Black whispered hoarsely, bringing Harry back to the _here_ and _now_, though there was very little to recommend the present over the musings of the past. They always remained much too similar. The man, broken from his time with the Dementors, made his way towards Harry on shaky, unsteady feet, and the teen just barely managed to catch Sirius in time when the older man's legs gave out beneath him.

"What did you dream about?" Harry asked as he gently brought them both down to the floor, pillowing Sirius' head upon his lap in an unconscious imitation as to what Tom had done with him earlier. Carefully, the green-eyed teen smoothed the hair away from his godfather's face, sad—so sad—to stare down into those dark, sightless eyes.

"I dreamt… I dreamt that this was all real," Sirius continued to whisper, voice dropping lower confidentially. He shifted closer to the warmth of Harry's body, hands blindly groping until they settled upon the teen's delicate wrists. "I dreamt that you and Lily were dead, that Remus had turned traitor—but that isn't really true, is it? It was Peter, it was Wormtail all along, and I dreamt that Voldemort had come for you and Lily and young Harry…." The man trailed off then before lifting a hand to trace the barest tips of his fingers over the slashes of Harry's dark eyebrows. "Harry, my godson. He survived in my dream, though, so perhaps it wasn't as much a nightmare as I had originally believed."

Breath shuddering out, Harry temporarily closed his eyes so that he would experience the same blindness as his godfather did day after day, and the teen turned his head just enough to cup his cheek against the palm of Sirius' rough hand.

"Was that all you dreamed about?" Harry murmured as he pressed a light kiss to the sensitive, vulnerable skin of Sirius' inner wrist.

"No…" the man mused aloud, allowing his hand to shift once more to trace over Harry's familiar features. James' familiar features. "They sent me to Azkaban without a trial. They never questioned me, you know, though they put other Death Eaters on trial. As I dreamed, I wondered to myself about how ironic it was. You know? How the innocent man is determined to be guilty without letting him speak, and the guilty man is let free after hours and hours of bullshit excuses. Throughout the dream, it was the silence that was the most frightening."

"And the Dementors," Harry continued for his godfather, not relenting in his careful finger-combing. He had awoken Sirius many times before from his nightmares—almost always, they featured the Dementors: their memory alone was enough to bring Sirius to despair, and Harry couldn't even bring himself to imagine just how horrible his time in Azkaban was after coming in one time and discovering that Sirius was attempting to hang himself.

The guards had allowed neither bedsheets nor clothes after that.

"And the Dementors," Sirius agreed with a full-body shiver.

Harry gently shushed his godfather's fears, soothing away the remnants of his nightmares with the gentlest of touches: leaving nothing but affection in each caress of his hand, in each stroke of his fingers, in each careful glide of his fingers through knotted, dirty hair.

"I'm here, Sirius. You won't ever be alone again."

"I know. I know, James," Harry's godfather whispered brokenly before letting his hands fall so that he might wrap long, bony fingers around one of the teen's wrists. "But… Harry. Tell me about Harry, James. You hardly ever mention him anymore. Is he… is he fine?"

"Most definitely," the teen reassured the adult, letting Sirius bring his hand down to press his palm against the man's chest, feeling Sirius' thready heartbeat. "He does well in all of his classes; Defense Against the Dark Arts used to be his favorite, but now he's decided that it's Potions. It's his seventh year this year, too. The Headmaster made him Head Boy. Lily and I are so proud of him; you remember when we were made Head Boy and Girl, too, right…? And when we pulled that one prank that made Lily take a hundred points from Gryffindor. McGonagall was so angry with us, I thought that she'd burst a blood vessel…"

Sirius remained silent for a long, long moment and Harry continued stroking his fingers through his godfather's hair, thinking that the man had finally fallen back to sleep—with any luck, a peaceful sleep this time.

The ex-convict surprised him, however, when Sirius reached up and gathered Harry in his arms. "I'm sorry, Harry, that I can't be stronger for you," the man whispered against the shell of Harry's ear, his own hands unsure as he reached up and imitated the boy's touch by running his fingers through the Gryffindor's unruly hair.

Ignoring the tears that fell from his eyes, Harry pressed a kiss to Sirius' cheek and wrapped his own arms around the man's too-thin form. "It's all right, godfather," the teen said in answer, reply barely audible. "I'll be strong enough for the both of us."


	6. Kenaz

_Author's Note:_ Thank you everyone for the reviews that you have given me. I can't thank you enough for your kindness in letting me know what you think of this story and, for those who are worried about the trail that this story will take: Harry's life has never been an easy one. This will be a difficult path for him, make no mistake about it, but it'll be worth it in the end. Please trust me on this? I promise that I will do my best to provide a worthwhile story for you all to read. :) I also don't want to spoil too much, but the two quotes that were partial inspiration for this story are: Norman B. Rice's "Dare to reach out your hand into the darkness, to pull another hand into the light." and Earl Nightingale's "We all walk in the dark and each of us must learn to turn on his or her own light."

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX  
Kenaz**

**

* * *

**

**Cen** byþ cwicera gehwam, cuþ on fyre  
blac ond beorhtlic, byrneþ oftust  
ðær hi æþelingas inne restaþ.

_**Torch**__ is known to every living man by its pale, bright flame;  
it always burns where lords rest within. _

_

* * *

_

It had been years, Harry acknowledged to himself as he stared outside the Hogwarts Express window, that he had considered returning to school a homecoming. The last time he had felt such a deep, grateful feeling of safety and warmth had been in second year: afterwards, however, each return to Hogwarts had morphed into the various descents of Dante's circles of Hell, one by one and year by year.

He realized what it felt like to be in the ninth level, drowning mercilessly within the first Round, in Caïna: trapped beneath the thick, icy sheet that covered Cocytus, breathing in freezing water as the upper levels of Hell stretched out above him, one amongst many damned souls, all "Livid, as far down as where shame appears, / Were the disconsolate shades within the ice, / Setting their teeth unto the note of storks. / Each one his countenance held downward bent."* The ninth circle of Hell, the level reserved for the most treacherous. Harry had once read the _Inferno_, back in his Muggle primary school. And, oh, how he finally _understood_: There was no such thing as redemption. Or forgiveness.

But it hadn't truly hit home until the train ride to Hogwarts, the start of Harry's third year, when he had bumped into the now-youngest Weasley and Ron had looked at him with burning, chocolate-dark eyes and had grabbed Hermione's hand to pull her away from Harry, all the while spitting out, "Stay the bloody hell away from me, murderer!"

It was that moment that Harry realized that the time spent down in the Chamber of Secrets with Tom Riddle had changed things in an irreparable manner for him, and that there was no going back. Ron blamed him for Ginny's death and had somehow managed to overcome Hermione's ever-logical arguments to coax her into blaming Harry for her being petrified for months, as well.

It hadn't seemed feasible; it hadn't seemed possible.

It certainly hadn't been _fair_.

But Ron's fury had known no bounds, and the redhead had been absolutely vengeful in his wrath. It wasn't long after that rumors began to spread about him—vicious, petty little things that echoed back to the time that people believed that he was the Heir of Slytherin after the snake incident…

And Harry had learned to stop caring.

Humans were fickle, capricious sorts: the Boy-Who-Lived had learned of that the hard way during his primary years when Dudley, Piers, and their gang of bullies had threatened anyone who made efforts to befriend Harry; humans were fickle, capricious sorts—and cowardly, too.

People stopped talking to him. They stopped looking at him. Soon enough, they stopped acknowledging his very presence. Harry had begun to stand alone, to be without partners during lessons, had sat at the end of the Gryffindor Table as the rest of the House talked over him. The professors had been concerned, of course, tried lecturing the other students to mellow their vitriol—but Ron never forgot, and he never forgave, and he made sure that no one else did, either.

_And Harry had learned to stop caring._

Hogwarts became a place of apathy for him. Keeping to himself, Harry spent a great deal of time alone in the library, tucked away in a corner that was hardly ever used (and then used not at all when he had started frequenting it) and idly flying on the Quidditch Pitch, playing a Seeker's game with himself, after Harry had been kicked off of the team.

He studied, he learned, and it was _so easy_ to draw parallels now between the Muggle and the wizarding world—so incredibly easy now, as well, to see just where Tom got most of his venom from. But Harry prided himself on _not _being the Dark Lord, and so instead of lashing out the way that Tom did, he withdrew into himself. Introverted and silent, his vert eyes hardened to jade and became an effortless mask. Oftentimes, he went days without speaking a single word.

As the student population began to turn their backs to him, Tom began to summon Harry more and more: going over plans with the young teen, dark eyes bright as he talked about how he would take over the wizarding world—the changes that he would make, the power that he would have, the suffering that others would feel at his hands; and Harry felt only despair and hopelessness.

Despite it all, though, there still remained a core part of himself that couldn't give up fighting—small acts of rebellion against the now-young Dark Lord. He would pull away from Tom when the other boy would attempt to draw him close, murmur how he had no thoughts on this opinion or that when the other questioned him. The first time that Tom had tried to kiss him, the day that Harry turned fourteen, the green-eyed Gryffindor had bit the Dark Lord.

Seeing the fury at being denied something that Tom had expected to receive on a silver platter… it sparked a wick to life, and it _reminded_ Harry that though he was collared and chained to this boy before him, he was still his own person. He had never broken beneath the Dursleys' treatment of him, and Harry refused to bow beneath this Dark Lord's. It _felt good_, petty though it was, to constantly deny Tom something that he obviously wanted. It gave Harry power, and it was a constant charm to ward off the apathy that had slowly been taking over his life.

The wick caught aflame:

And though it was a realization years belated, Harry came to terms with the fact that Ginny's death had not been his fault, no matter what Ron thought or what he got other people to say or think. He had genuinely cared about the sweetly blushing girl, and Harry had tried his best to save her. Yes, _it hadn't been enough_—but he was only human. He was human, could not perform miracles no matter what other people thought, and it dawned on him just how incredibly _lucky_ he had been to have even survived his battle with Quirrell in the first year.

Luck sometimes ran out.

His luck _had_ run out.

But what mattered, the point that people seemed to forget, _was that he had tried his best._

It had taken two years, but Harry had finally come to terms with himself and the events of the Chamber of Secrets. Slowly, he began to respond more quickly, more thoroughly to Tom—oftentimes snarkily, which earned him punishments—and despite how Hogwarts still managed to dull his spirits, Harry was _alive_. Bound, a servant, a slave, but _alive_—and he would make the most of that life if he could. The only person who would ever have the power to dominate him was _himself_, and Harry wasn't willing to accept that any longer. He would live the best to his abilities, the most that was possible, even under Tom Riddle's dominion.

The die had been cast, but Harry refused to give up his soul.

The attacks on Azkaban came during fifth year.

Harry hadn't been allowed to participate in them and had stayed within the wards of Hogwarts to instead act as a magical reservoir for Tom—after which Harry had been shaky and exhausted for days after (and had had the pleasure of sending off his first Howler, something that the Dark Lord had _not_ appreciated). But the winter of fifth year—oh, it had been absolutely amazing because Harry had been gifted with something that he had always wanted: a family.

Tom had rescued Sirius Black from his cell in Azkaban with the rest of his Death Eaters. While the Dark Lord never bothered to begin exonerating Sirius and proving his innocence (why should he when Pettigrew was still one of his Death Eaters and a perfect spy within Hogwarts?), he had still freed the Black heir and had handed him over to Harry. However, the arrogant Dark Lord still forced Sirius to remain within the dungeons. But at least there weren't any Dementors.

Harry's link to his parents, his past, a time when he had probably last been truly happy and content with his life—pathetic, he knew, in that the criteria only fit during the time when he was a baby. But the teen was honest with himself, at least, and that realization had been the truth. He had visited Sirius every day during the holidays after Portkeying away from the Dursleys', and Harry had spent the time nursing the blind man back to health whenever Tom didn't require his presence.

The first time that Sirius had the strength to speak, the House of Black scion called him "James," and it was then that Harry had finally realized just how truly broken this innocent, decrepit man was—and Harry's heart broke in turn.

But he couldn't help but love Sirius despite it all; to do any less would make him more of a monster than Tom, and it was something that Harry refused to find acceptable. So he loved his godfather, his true family—no matter the fact that Sirius spent more time calling him "James" or "Prongs" than "Harry." The times that he was lucid, however, and a whispered, beaten-down "Harry" trembled from his lips…

It was _so hard_ for Harry not to fall completely apart and cry.

The Marked teen slowly withdrew from his melancholic memories, not wanting to be lost in them throughout the ride to Hogwarts; it didn't matter that it was the journey itself that inspired such dark, lingering thoughts—a testament that showed in how the compartment that the teen was in had remained empty despite how the train overflowed with students—and Harry smiled slightly as he leaned forward to press his forehead against the cool glass of the windowpane.

Seventh year at Hogwarts.

The farce wouldn't be lasting for much longer—and it was that sole thought that brought a slow, contented smile to Harry's lips: the thought that he would no longer have to return to this not-home, would no longer have to deal with the hostile stares of those who were supposedly his peers. True, it also meant that Tom would then expect him to attend on the Dark Lord thoroughly, but at least Harry could admit—if only in the inner sanctity of his mind—that he preferred Tom's open, deliberate sadism to Hogwarts' thoughtless, casual cruelty.

Seventh year at Hogwarts.

Harry's smile grew.

* * *

The first surprise of the year came during the Welcoming Feast.

Despite the responsibilities that the Dark Lord had in overseeing Britain and playing Headmaster for Hogwarts, Tom had decided that—just for this year—he would be taking over the Dark Arts class for the seventh years. Harry personally thought that it was because Tom wanted to make sure that he was keeping up with his assigned reading, a particular thought that made the Gryffindor huff in exasperation.

The announcement had been made by Professor McGonagall, her accent thick with angry disapproval—disapproval that she had learned not to voice, not after Tom and his forces had managed to chase Headmaster Dumbledore from Britain—while the student body gaped up at her in shock. The _Dark Lord_ intended to personally teach the seventh years _Dark Arts_ (though years one through six was still taught by Barty Crouch Jr.). There was fear in the whispers, awe in the murmurs, rebellion in the looks that were sent to the Head Table where the Dark Lord sat quietly sipping his goblet of wine, hiding a pleased smirk behind the silver rim.

The rebellion, of course, mainly came from the Gryffindor Table—and Harry couldn't help but wonder just how many _Crucios_ and other Dark curses Tom Riddle would be tossing out before the end of the first class. The Dark Lord didn't even have the best of temperament with his own followers—and those men and women had sworn their loyalty to them.

Change that to mutinous seventeen year-olds, dead-set on proving their leonine bravery?

Sipping his pumpkin juice, Harry idly let his musings wander, considering absently just how long it would take before the first death would occur—and just who from his House it would be. He pondered, too, as to how productive it would be to begin a betting pool with himself. At least he would keep himself entertained with it.

* * *

Perhaps he should have expected it.

But, honestly, Harry hadn't.

The vitriol that he was faced with day after day had never mellowed, had never softened—the spite and malice had always remained, and the green-eyed teen had resigned himself to another year of it. It was just a year, after all, less than that, truthfully. A year was made up of twelve months and Harry only had to attend Hogwarts for ten: September through June, and then he would be finished.

It was as Harry was following the rest of his fellow Gryffindors up to their Tower lair that they, as a collective whole, and the seventh years from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, rounded on him and cornered the Potter heir in an abandoned classroom. Everyone crowded close, and a tense excitement, a feeling of expectation and elation, filled the air.

Harry watched them from beneath his lashes, face as blank as it ever was during Death Eater meetings, despite the fact that his mask hid his expressions, anyway, and the teen waited for the others to have the first word.

Shockingly, it was a Hufflepuff that made the first move. "Harry, mate, now's your chance."

"Yeah!" several other people agreed excitedly, some students clapping and all of them looking to the boy with the chartreuse eyes with faces that shone with hope and delight and confidence in the slim figure of the Potter heir.

Harry, however, quirked an eyebrow at them all. "It's my chance for what?" he asked simply. It was so easy to play the naïve fool, but the bitterness within him would allow for nothing less—would allow for nothing less for these _children_ to spell out, _exactly_, what it was that he knew that they wanted of him.

Some of the expressions looked briefly taken aback, lips parting in surprise, and it was Seamus Finnigan who then stopped forward; disposition cheery, he lightly clapped his fellow Housemate upon the shoulder, beaming happily at Harry while his face glowed with pride. "Now's your chance to finish You-Know-Who off! We have a _class_ with him—what better chance will you get?"

The Potter heir slowly raised an eyebrow. "Why would I do any of that?"

The inquiry stunned nearly all of the students, and it was a sputtering Ron who stepped forward to look at Harry as if the boy had grown a second head. "Why would you do it?" he asked, incredulous. "You're the Boy-Who-Lived! You defeated You-Know-Who when you were a baby! Now's your chance to finish him off again, this time once and for all!"

The apathy that he felt towards these witches and wizards faded, if only for a moment, and Harry's temper sparked to life. The look that he gave the students surrounding him was hard: many of them flinched beneath it, and several even took a step backwards, away from the iconic Gryffindor. How _dare_ they. The _hypocrisy_...

"Let me get this straight," Harry murmured. He never raised his voice to a shout, but—then again—there was no need to. His tone was sharp enough to have cut through any conversation that might have sprung up around him. "The lot of you have shunned me and referred to me as a murderer for something that wasn't my fault since the end of second year, before which most of you had ignored me after thinking me the Heir of Slytherin. The end of second, and all of third, fourth, fifth, and sixth years, you lot considered me the Spawn of Satan and I didn't even have a bloody _friend_. And now that the Dark Lord is in the school on a permanent basis, you expect me to go after him and defeat him in some epic duel? Are you all serious? _Really?_"

The answer to their expectations came in Harry's derisive laughter.

He was so _bitter_. And so _tired_ and _weary_, so completely and utterly _done with them all._

Hermione was the one who next posed the argument, and Harry wasn't surprised at all over which tactic she attempted to put into use. Emotional guilt, hints towards his responsibilities, had worked _so well_ before. Remind Harry of his duty, the teen thought angrily, green eyes flashing warningly at the girl; remind Harry of his duty and he'll go _jumping_ at the chance to prove himself. "You're the scion of the Light, Harry," Hermione said, voice soft and coaxing, completely unaware of Harry's venomous thoughts. "The Boy-Who-Lived. It's your _destiny_ to fight and defeat You-Know-Who."

Harry looked out over all of the students' expectant, hopeful faces, and verdigris eyes turned hard and unsympathetic as he remembered the pain that these children had put him through and the pain that he had suffered at having no one to turn to as Tom Riddle had dragged him deeper and deeper into the Abyss. And then there had been no going back because Harry had Fallen too far.

Years, these children had pushed him to the outskirts for their own malicious, petty closed-mindedness—and it was only now out of desperation and cowardice that they even bothered to _look_ at him.

He was _so bloody tired_ of being the wizarding world's whipping boy—the Savior one moment, the boy who everyone could depend upon to save them in their true hour of need, and then the blackest of the black the next, the type of wizard who mothers whispered about in the midnight hour as the starlight faded to true oblivion: "You must always be careful and always mind your manners or I shall summon the Boy-Who-Lived to whisk you away." The fluxuating opinions were disgusting, and it demonstrated just how truly shallow these people were. And, if only for a moment, Harry pitied _Tom_ for having to rule them all. _Sheep_. They were all bloody _sheep_.

"Destiny can go hang," Harry said. "And you lot can join her."

He left them all gaping as he headed up to bed.

* * *

* Dante's _Inferno_; Canto XXXII


End file.
